Ursula Axilla Journal Prelude
A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed Going to see Seymour is always such a pain in the ass, sometimes I gotta wonder why I bother but then.. well, he's terrible at cards and has the best booze in town. I always feel so fucking small wandering down the corridor to his lounge, like that whole building was built to put whoever is in it, whether you own it or, whether you're a bot or a skin, right down into your place. I honest to gods wouldn't be surprised if the damn thing was some ancient bot itself, running some massive experiment on whatever it can lure into its highly polished innards. I knew it was a mistake to visit him at work, his assistants look at me like i'm dirt just cos I prefer to walk the city than some cushy office job, watching a wall of massive screens all day. His PR guy always tries though, physically blocks my path every time cos he knows I can't push past his massive metal torso. Same old conversation whilst i'm aware of the shifting of the security guys around me, always half an eye on me in case I decide to prove them all right. What am I gonna do exactly? Besides, they didn't catch me when I pinched a hole-puncher and a box of pens. Security guards my ass. But in the end, it's always time well spent when I finally get in. Seymour's a good guy, he works hard and he gives a shit, which I guess is the very least you could hope for out of a Big Boss Guy. He treats his staff well and they seem to genuinely care about his welfare. All for the best. I've had to pull him outta the shit once and I don't reckon i'd survive a round 2. We play cards, he loses with a smile, the good natured jackass. His wife will show up eventually, she always does when I visit but it's not like that. She knows it's not like that. She just knows I will always talk him into some cockamamie bet if she doesn't roll by to shut me down, she's got a sixth sense for it. Fun ruiner... I think Seymour doing a lap around the building wearing nothing but his briefs would do everyone a heap of good. Eventually I drink enough of his fancy booze that my heart starts hurting and that's always my sign to stagger home. I'm always offered a lift, but I prefer getting the air and the chance to walk some of it off. It's like clockwork, which it actually could well be, that when I pop by his of a night that when I get back to my own office there'll be a job waiting, or some fresh faced little punk wanting to tell me something I probably already know in the hope of getting paid. But then i'm a pushover when i'm liquored up, if I had an accountant he'd probably sign me up to some 7 step programme. It's good to have friends though, in this place with all its fast cars and flashing lights and sparkling promises of a fancy home and nice clothes if you sign your mind away on the dotted line and plug into the Great Commercial Machine it's easy to forget you're alive if you don't take the time to break bread with others now and then. Still, Seymour said he'd at least try and run around the office in his pants, even if Trish said he couldn't do it outside. Good man that one. Good work ethic.